


The Form of My Intent

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Drabbles, Friendship, Gen, Podficced Works, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I admit it was not only disdain, but fear, that caused me at first to scorn Holmes’ theories of deduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Form of My Intent

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been podficced by [wouldsomebody](http://wouldsomebody.tumblr.com): [Part 1](http://wouldsomebody.tumblr.com/post/167214564023/part-1-for-real-this-time-baha-of-my-podfic-of), [Part 2](http://wouldsomebody.tumblr.com/post/167285436703/the-rest-of-my-podfic-of-violsvas-the-form-of-my)

John Watson: respectable former military man, doctor, wounded in action (twice: left shoulder, left shin), recovering from illness, excellent shot, overly fond of gambling, extremely interested in women, regrettable tendency towards sentiment and melodrama, amazingly loyal, terrible at observation and deception, capable of only basic deduction, but, surprisingly, a man in whose presence my mind could open cases as if he were a lockpick.

I felt I was missing something, but such feelings are useless: I could point to no details, no observations, no _data_ causing this impression.

I put it down to my unusual, irrational fascination with the man.

***

“Oh, darling, your hair, your beautiful hair! How could you?” My mother burst into tears.

I was almost mad to leave, to remake myself. It did not matter too much, now, what they thought of me, or that was what I told myself. I planned far worse, if I could get at my inheritance.

Still, I had made my mother cry. Henry’s reproachful glance was unnecessary in the face of my own guilt. But it was not the first time – it was very far from the first time.

I wished it would be the last, but knew better.

***

I was almost at ease with myself when I was suddenly wounded. I managed, somehow, to keep other doctors from too close an investigation. I fought off solicitous nurses even in the midst of delirium. I still do not know if I managed to keep my secret, except that surely anyone who found me out would have revealed it. At last, in England, I could almost relax in a hotel, badly shaken from more than merely my illness.

I was relieved to meet Stamford, for if anyone in the Army or hospital had suspected, he was as unknowing as ever.

***

I admit it was not only disdain, but fear, that caused me at first to scorn Holmes’ theories of deduction. Soon, however, I had too much proof to ignore his capabilities. But as months turned to years our life went on as usual; I found myself relaxing in this strange man’s company as I had never before relaxed with others. I could see no sign that he knew, though in every other respect he read my mind like a book.

I could only thank God for the reprieve, as I grew more and more attached to my life with him.

***

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

“How terrible!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said, turning and gazing at me, “I must remain a governess, I suppose.” But her voice held a question, and I knew her wishes.

And I wished the same. When I first heard her words, a great shadow had seemed to pass from my soul at the removal of that golden barrier from between us. Yet I knew, as she could not, of a greater barrier.

I would not be so cruel as to impose a childless marriage upon a woman I loved.

***

I had been certain I would lose him. The nature of his feelings for Miss Morstan was too obvious to ignore. I prepared a cutting little speech on the folly of matrimony and waited for the blow.

Instead, when the case was resolved he said nothing, paid little attention to Small’s long explanations – all gratifyingly confirming my theories – and then retired early to his bed. I seized my violin.

He was clearly in great distress. I would consider later why he might have rejected her, or been rejected. But now I could not help but toss away thought, and play.

***

“Well, Watson,” I said, showing him the article, “you have called me a master of disguise, but here is someone who utterly takes away my title.”

I had thought the woman’s story would amuse him, no more. But he started violently.

“Of course,” I said casually, “it has happened before. I think I recall a case in the Army, some decades ago.” I had hardly studied it, thinking such matters largely irrelevant to my work.

“Dr. James Barry,” he said, too quickly. “Well, ah, at least you still take the prize for variety, Holmes.”

***

My father would never have countenanced having such a paper in his house. But when I saw the headline I bought it without a thought. I concealed it in the folds of my shawl as my brother returned to escort me home, and once there secreted it in my room.

Thenceforth, whenever I knew I would be left alone, I returned to my bedchamber and read and reread the article, searching for anything more it had to give me. I had memorized it in a month, in all its vile sensationalism. I see it so now; then, it was salvation.

***

I had a hypothesis, then. But how to test it? Caseless for weeks, I found myself at once cheered by the prospect.

There were dozens of ways, of course, some ruled out at once by his modesty, which had kept me from discovering him before, some offensive, some obviously contrived. Watson’s military background was indisputable, his medical credentials undoubtedly authentic: he had been carrying on this deception for at least fifteen years, so he would be cautious...

Deception?

I realized suddenly that all my deductions had been based on my belief that he was a man, and so must be incorrect – but they were not. I knew his character by now.

Something did not fit.

This man, I knew, was utterly unfitted for even the simplest of lies. And yet he would have been effortlessly concealing this from me for our entire acquaintance. It was impossible.

I could not see him as a woman, no matter how hard I tried – not that I wanted to.

Surely this was all the more reason to test my hypothesis, and yet I suddenly shrank from it. A man with Watson’s regard for privacy, a man with such a secret, if secret he had...

Would he leave, if I uncovered it?

It was too much of a risk. For once, I could live with bafflement.


	2. How Have the Hours Rack'd and Tortured Me

I brought my cane down on Merridew’s hand and he dropped the statue. I had a pair of handcuffs in my pocket; throwing my weight on his back, I wrestled them on and turned to Watson and his opponent.

When I was occupied, another man had come in, and Watson was now beset by the two of them. I cursed myself for a fool and jumped up.

My cane knocked the unsuspecting second man unconscious, and Watson finished his. My friend grinned, stretched, and then gasped with pain. It was then I saw the blood. I had forgotten the knife.

***

“Come, Mr. Holmes, you can do nothing for him,” said Lestrade. “The Yard’s surgeon’s excellent at his work. Everything will be fine. I need your help with the details of the case.”

It was blatant flattery, intended to distract me. Lestrade was worried; from the covert way he had of looking at me, he suspected inappropriate affection for Watson and was warning me not to reveal it. He was, of course, wrong.

I agreed to speak of Merridew’s capture, but before Lestrade had led me away from the door we were interrupted by the surgeon’s cry of shock.

***

After was a blur. First the shock, the horrified, unbelieving expressions, then the hushed voices and quick arrangements. A rented room, arguments, threats. Lestrade, amazed but still loyal in his way, at last winning, in his mind, and having me sent to an alienist instead of prison (though no one was sure what to charge me with).

Through it all, the image of Holmes, staring at me as I refused to meet his eyes.

I knew he wanted to see me. I also knew the meanings of my keepers’ expressions when they spoke of him. I would not see him.

***

“I can’t believe it, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said for the tenth time.

“Then do not,” I snapped.

“But I’ve seen it. But it’s impossible.”

“You never have understood the basic principles of detection, Lestrade. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It is impossible that Watson is a woman.”

“Mr. Holmes, it’s all impossible. I knew him – her – I can’t believe it.”

“Then don’t.”

But it would not get through. He stared at me, shook his head as he did when he thought me mad, and left.

***

“Hello, Miss Watson,” said the alienist. “I’m Doctor Roths.” Between the title and the damned dress, I felt fourteen again.

“Not Miss. Doctor.”

He smiled. “What do you mean, Miss Watson?”

“Kindly address me as Doctor Watson. I earned it fairly.”

A much tighter smile. “The University of London might disagree. Miss Watson, surely you understand that I have no way of knowing your antecedents. Suppose you tell me of your life?”

The appointment did not go well after that.

When he broached the subject of Holmes, I refused to answer him at all.

***

“Hanwell?” I admit I was unprepared for it. The word came as a blow.

“Yes.”

“You cannot send him to an asylum! There is nothing wrong with him!” I am not normally so discomposed by surprises, but perhaps this was the frustration I felt at the knowledge there was no way to stop it.

“It’s Hanwell or Holloway Prison for her, Mr. Holmes. She’ll have somewhere to stay and proper care. She’ll come back to herself.”

I knew better than to say that he’d been perfectly fine while staying _here_. Lestrade took his hat and left.

***

The ward was dark, and thankfully small. The patients all seemed to be asleep. I had some difficulty finding his bed, but at last arrived at the foot of it, feeling a weird sense of _deja vu_. It was the wrong bed, the wrong room, but a familiar situation.

“Sorry to wake you, Watson,” I whispered, “but there is a matter of some urgency that demands our attention.”

He must have thought he was dreaming, but at the sight of me he sat up, gasped, and then stifled any other reaction after a quick glance around the ward.

***

“Holmes,” I whispered, “you cannot be here!”

“And yet I am, Watson. In the flesh.”

“You especially cannot be here _in the middle of the night_. If you are discovered – your career -”

“I thought noon not the wisest time to effect an escape from an asylum. As for my career, we shall discuss that later. Assuming, of course, that you wish to leave with me?”

“Holmes, you cannot risk yourself doing this -”

“Watson, I assure you I calculated all risks in advance. Get ready as quickly as you can.”

Of course I did.

***

There was no need for Watson to worry. I had studied the asylum’s schedules, wardens, and grounds, and we encountered no difficulties. I helped Watson over the wall and set out for the closest of my hideaways.

His relief upon seeing the clothing set out for him in the dingy surroundings was gratifying. I excused myself so he could change, and when I returned he looked himself again, as I had not seen him appear in weeks.

“Holmes,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough.”

“You may yet decide not to thank me,” I said. “Cigarette?”

***

It tasted like heaven, after so long without. “You recall Professor Moriarty, Watson?”

“I could hardly forget him.”

“Indeed. He and his merry band have _almost_ cast themselves into my net, and I have hopes tonight’s work shall finish it.”

“Tonight’s work?”

He grinned. “Oh, yes. You see, there appears to have been a break-in at Baker Street. Forced locks, signs of a struggle, important papers missing – luckily Lestrade has copies – bloodstains, and clear signs linking the kidnapping and possible murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes to Moriarty himself. Scotland Yard shall investigate, reach the obvious conclusion, and finish the work I have left them, and you and I, Watson, shall be enjoying ourselves in Paris and watching carefully for any last minute escapes from the noose. I have rescued you only to immediately call upon your assistance, if you don’t mind.”

“There is nothing I would enjoy more.”

“Excellent.”

“But Holmes, how will you return to your work after?”

“I won’t.”

“I cannot force you to throw away your career!”

“Say rather you are assisting in its culmination. I cannot work without you, Watson, but with you I may start again.” Such unaccustomed emotion left me speechless. “Now, I suggest you get some sleep. We take the earliest boat.”


End file.
